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Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Standing
Trees
Thieving
Tree
Dresses
Sadder
Tell
Naked
Conceal
Anything
Rose
Hears
World
Roots
Splendor
Regret
Automobile
Train
Regrets
Rain
Dress

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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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I ask permission to be like everybody else,like the rest of the world and what's more, like anybody else:I beg you, with all my heart,if we are talking about me, since we are talking about me,please resist blasting the trumpet during my visitand resign yourselves to my quiet absence.
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I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
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Love! Love until the night collapses!
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I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
Pablo Neruda